In the laboratory, a man and four women, one of them old enough to be a grandmother, sat in armless wooden chairs in a rough circle. They were quietly dressed, and all except the white-haired woman had reddish tints in their hair. The man could not have been more than twenty-five or so, with restless eyes and angular, homely features. Danilo bowed and, after suitable greetings, took the single empty seat.
“You lend us grace, vai dom,” said the tall, poised woman, Varinna, who owned the house. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit? Has there been some complaint against us?”
The matrix mechanics existed in a gray zone, neither Comyn nor commoner, mistrusted by both, tolerated only because they provided services too trivial for Tower leroni. They had no powerful friends and were always vulnerable to charges of illegal activities.
“No, no,” Danilo said quickly. Until now, his contact with these people had been oblique, discreet. “I do not come in any official capacity, at least not at the present time. Rather, my aim is to explore the possibility of working together to the mutual benefit of yourselves and latent, untrained telepaths throughout Darkover.”
The young man, who had been introduced as Darius-Mikhail Zabal, turned to Danilo with a frankly curious gaze.
“Do not toy with us, Dom Danilo Syrtis,” said the white-haired woman, regarding him with an expression of unmasked suspicion. She touched the cane leaning against her chair as if she would like to beat him with it. “We know who you are. You serve the Hasturs, now as before. Are you not, even now, spying on us for the Regent?”
“Spying, no.” He paused, unsure how much to tell them. Yet, trust must be earned.
“Once, laran Gifts may have been restricted to the Comyn, but over the centuries they have been diluted.” Danilo did not need to point out that all of them had some talent, or they could not manipulate the small crystals they were permitted by law or operate monitor screens like the one in the corner of this very laboratory.
“You have had the benefit of training,” Danilo went on. “You can use your laran to earn a respectable living. For each of you, might there not be others less fortunate—dozens, perhaps hundreds more—unknown, untaught, tormented by powers they can neither understand nor control?”
One of the women shrugged. “I am sorry for them, of course. It is a shame they have not the opportunity to use their laran.”
“It is a disgrace!” Danilo exclaimed. “Not only do those people suffer, but all of Darkover is the poorer for it.”
“I too have wondered if those with such gifts could be found, taught, and given useful work,” Darius-Mikhail said quietly, “but as one man with slender resources, I can do little to help them.”
“Together, we could,” Danilo went on. “With the backing of the Council, we could train matrix healers, set up relays for everyone to use, not just Towers—”
—a planet-wide communication system, far better than anything the Terrans could offer—
“—track weather patterns—”
“For what purpose? We are not Tower folk. We cannot control storm and flood, like the Aldarans,” the old woman pointed out.
“Perhaps not,” Darius-Mikhail said, “but with forewarning, dwellings could be safeguarded and livestock saved. Losses would be minimized and help brought more speedily.”
Danilo said, “We can stabilize hillside erosion and make firefighting chemicals available to everyone who needs them.”
“The affairs of the vai Comynari are nothing to us, nor ours to them,” Varinna said stiffly.
A long, uncomfortable pause followed. Danilo had hoped to excite their interest and their hope for a better future, not just for themselves but for all of Darkover. He had known they might be reticent, that his overtures might be met with mistrust.
Still, Danilo thought as he bade them good day, it was a beginning. The matrix mechanics agreed to meet with him again. They were wary, but he sensed that underneath the thinly veiled animosity, he had piqued their curiosity.
Darius-Mikhail accompanied Danilo into the street. “I hope you are not too discouraged by your reception. The others mean well, but they all have good reason to go carefully. Some ordinary folk still regard us as sorcerers or worse, and the Towers have never been friendly.”
“I did not think it would be easy,” Danilo said.
“Even so, I believe you,” Darius-Mikhail said. “And if—when, you have a place for me, I will gladly join you.” He glanced back at the house. “You understand that I must earn my bread in the meantime.”
And that means maintaining a good relationship with those who refer work to me.
“Zabal is an old, honorable family name,” Danilo said. “I know I have heard it, but I cannot remember where. I am sorry, but should I know you? Could you be a distant kinsman?”
Darius-Mikhail’s expression turned guarded. “Whatever dealings my family had with the Comyn were a long time ago. I do not ask for preference or privilege, only honest work.”
Danilo nodded, understanding all too well the difficulty of being poor and friendless in a large city, too proud to accept overt charity. “Then honest work you shall have, when there is any to be done.”
Darius-Mikhail inclined his head in an impeccably respectful bow and then went on his way. Was it a trace of precognition, Danilo wondered, or only his liking for the younger man that made him certain they would meet again?
13
Flames…flames burning in his mind…a woman, chained, her molten hair blown on a firestorm wind, hovering…rising…
“No! Merciful Avarra, no!”
Pain…agony flaring in his hand…
“No!” The cry, torn from his own throat, wrenched Danilo awake. His vision blurred with overlapping images—his familiar chamber, night-darkened…a woman, burning eternally, spanning the heavens, leaning down, reaching for him—Sharra!
No, it could not be! The immensely powerful, illegal matrix that had been used for such destruction a generation ago had been destroyed. Regis had taken up the legendary Sword of Aldones and shattered the hold of Sharra upon Darkover.
Gradually, the image of Sharra faded. Danilo’s pulse slowed and grew steadier. The panic-fueled tension in his muscles eased, replaced by shivering. The embers of his small night fire had fallen into a pile of ashes. Half unconsciously, his fingers moved in the safeguarding sign of cristoforo prayers, one he had not used since childhood.
A dream, it must have been a dream. But not his own, of that he was certain. Although he and Regis had been taken prisoner while Sharra raged over the Hellers, he himself had never been forced into the circle of laran-Gifted workers who were trying to control it. Lew had intervened, almost at the cost of his life—
Lew.
Cold receded, replaced by rocky certainty. It had been Lew’s dream. Lew had been freed from Sharra when Regis destroyed the matrix that housed the Form of Fire…but perhaps that infernal image still persisted in Lew’s memory.
Without hesitation, Danilo pulled on his indoor clothes, a linex shirt worn to flannel softness, long lambswool vest and pants, and low boots. He tried to contact the other man’s mind with his laran but without success. Lighting a candle, he headed toward the Alton quarters.
Around him, Comyn Castle lay still as bedrock. Every sensible soul was still abed at this hour. As Danilo approached the Alton quarters, he felt a vibration of psychic energy, a twist of pain—
“Come to me, burn forever…”
And silent weeping, “No! No!”
Danilo broke into a run. His laran guided him unerringly. A door loomed ahead, a shadow in the wavering light of his candle. He jerked the latch up. It slid easily under his touch. He shoved the door open and rushed through the outer chamber. Beyond lay a series of smaller rooms, and from one of them he heard—sensed—the silent, anguished moan.
This was one of the older portions of the Castle. The walls were bare, dense, dark gray granite set with slender panels of pale blue stone that glimmered faintly, giving the
room the look of a jewel-studded cavern. Not a cavern, Danilo thought, a tomb, a place suspended in time. The furnishings, a huge four-poster bed, dressers and chairs, were old, too, from before Lord Kennard’s day.
Danilo rushed to the bedside and set the candle on the nightstand beside it. An odor of honey and sleepweed rose from the half-empty goblet.
“Lew! Lew, wake up!”
Grasping the older man’s shoulders, Danilo turned him on his back. Never before had he seen such an expression—horror, desperation—on a human face.
“Lew! It’s me, Danilo!”
What would he do if Lew did not respond, if he had gone so deep within his private nightmare as to be beyond human reach? Danilo had heard stories of how, to save a man’s life or his sanity, a leronis might take his starstone into her hands. No, that was one thing he would not do. Kadarin had taken Lew’s starstone and then drugged him, to break his will and force him into the Sharra circle. The shock had almost killed Lew. Perhaps it had also driven him mad, and no wonder.
Poor tormented soul, Danilo thought. Gently, he lowered Lew back on his pillow and smoothed the limp, sweat-damp hair. His fingertips brushed the knotted scars over cheek and lip, the deeply incised lines. How you have suffered.
Danilo took Lew’s one hand and cradled it between his own. The Holy St. Christopher knew, there were burdens enough in the world. Over the years, nourished by love and useful work, he had made his peace with his own sorrows, all but one, the single gaping wound, the death of Regis. Even in that, he admitted, he had discovered a kind of solace. If he had lost, he had also loved and been loved.
The flaming image spreading across the heavens…A woman’s form, laughing as the fire consumed her…A mind, pressing on his, the terrible crushing force…his own mind giving way…
Peace… Danilo prayed. Bearer of Burdens, let this man’s sorrow be lifted from him. Let there be an end to his pain, a healing, a cleansing…
How long Danilo sat there, filled with that poignant mixture of grief and tranquility, he could not tell. At last, he felt a stirring, a movement between his hands. With a heart-rending cry, Lew jerked his hand free.
“No! Stay away!”
“It’s all right, Lew. I won’t harm you. It’s me, Danilo.”
“It is you. I thought—I must have been dreaming.” Lew covered his face with his hand. “Dark Avarra, it’s still there! She’s still there, in my mind! I’ll never be free, never!”
Danilo made no attempt to touch the older man again. “The Sharra matrix was destroyed. She can never harm you again.”
How can you be sure? She was real, I tell you, just as monstrous as when she drew us into the madness at Caer Donn…
Danilo flinched under the power of Lew’s unspoken thought. Hesitantly, he asked if he might see Lew’s starstone.
Lew, like many of his generation, wore his matrix on a cord about his neck, shrouded in insulating silk. He slipped it over his head, unwrapped it, and held it out. Danilo bent for a closer look, careful to avoid any physical contact with the stone. Shadows shifted in the glinting blue light.
Danilo sensed the residue of Lew’s laran, etched there by decades of use. Here lay a record of Lew’s strength and courage, but also of self-doubt, bitter regret, and, running through them all like a river of poison, guilt. Guilt for what he had done, guilt for the death of his first wife, who had perished in order to give them all a chance of escape.
No taint of Sharra remained in the starstone, although the memories might well persist in Lew’s mind.
“I saw no trace of Sharra in your matrix,” Danilo said, indicating Lew’s starstone. “We must look deeper.”
Danilo was no Tower-trained laranzu. He knew his limits all too well, and he was not entirely sure he had been right in his treatment of young Alanna. But Lew desperately needed help and, in this moment, was open to him. Such a moment might not come again.
Danilo did not know how much goodwill, compassion, and his own experience supporting Regis through threshold sickness could do in this case. But he had to try. He himself had once been the victim of laran invasion of his mind, even as Lew had.
Hesitantly, Danilo asked, “Will you allow me to examine your mind as well?”
Eyes dark with anguish met his. “Are you sure you want to do that? Do you know what you will find?”
“I know something of the abuses of laran,” Danilo forced himself to say. “I too thought I would go mad, that there was no way out, no one who would accept my word or take my part. I was wrong, as we both know. Regis believed in me. He believed in you, as well. For the sake of what we have each endured, will you not trust me?”
For a long moment Lew’s mind was silent. Perhaps he had suffered too much. “You have never been false to me, Danilo Syrtis,” he said in a harsh whisper. “I do not believe there is any hope for me, but if you are determined, you may try.”
Lew lay back, and Danilo shifted his position. Instead of looking directly at Lew, Danilo closed his eyes. Breathing deep into his belly to calm his own thoughts, he allowed himself to slowly descend. Bits of color and sound swept past him. He caught fragments of music and speech, faces—a girl-child with haunted golden eyes, a room with odd geometric furniture, a single moon rising above a placid sea, soaring glaciated peaks washed crimson in dusk, a beautiful young woman with flame-red hair, eyes of gold-flecked amber and an expression of heart-melting tenderness—Marjorie! An ancient city—Caer Donn!
No, Danilo thought, that way lies madness. Without knowing how, he guided the other man’s thoughts. Let the past rest. There is nothing you can do to change what happened. Let it go…
Like a flash flood, soul-deep revulsion spread across Lew’s mind, directed not at the Sharra circle but at himself.
You do not understand! Lew raged at Danilo.
Danilo could not imagine what Lew had done that he should look upon himself with such disgust. The catastrophe of Sharra, the deaths, the madness, the ruin of a beautiful and ancient city—these all lay in the past, and none of them had been Lew’s fault. Lew had acted honorably, had tried his best to prevent the disaster, and had himself been a victim. Perhaps, in the manner of victims, he blamed himself for not doing more, but Danilo did not believe that was the sole cause of the older man’s self-loathing. There was something else, some memory buried even more deeply, that now ate away at Lew’s soul like a hideous cancer.
No wonder Lew had gone through bouts of drunkenness, years when he did not show his face in Thendara.
Shivering, nauseated, Danilo found himself back in his own body. A faint light touched the eastern-facing window. Beside him, Lew had turned his face away.
That unhealed hurt, that festering wound spread its poison into Lew’s mind. Eventually, it would kill him, either from overwhelming despair or by driving him back to drunken forgetfulness.
“Lew,” Danilo said gently, “listen to me. Whatever it is you have done, whatever has been done to you, it is devouring you from within. I know a little about living with nightmares. I don’t—” he broke off, searching for words. “I don’t think this is the kind of thing we can survive alone.”
After a long moment, Lew stirred. “What do you suggest I do about it?” His tone indicated he had little hope, that this was a useless exercise.
“I don’t know why these memories have resurfaced now,” Danilo said, changing the subject slightly. “The Keepers tell us such things can lie dormant, only to awaken when some person or event triggers them. It’s as if, in some corner of your mind, that terrible time is still going on.”
Lew’s face went stony. “I don’t need you to tell me that. I’ve lived with those memories for a long time.”
“If there is a way to make peace with the past…” Danilo captured Lew’s gaze with his own. “Isn’t that why you drank so much? To forget?”
Lew’s head jerked back, like a startled horse.
“I know only one place where a man can find true peace, not just the oblivion of the bottle,??
? Danilo went on. “Where even the heaviest burden can be eased.”
“I studied at Arilinn long ago,” Lew said, “but I do not think the discipline I learned there can help me now.”
“I did not mean a Tower. I meant the monastery at Nevarsin, St.-Valentine-of-the-Snows. No, Lew, I do not say that because I was raised in the cristoforo faith. I studied there, yes, but so did Regis, and he was not. I say it because I have seen men whose minds and lives were shattered find hope again. Even if they could never return to the outer world, they discovered a measure of contentment. The past cannot be changed. We both know that. But what we do with it, that is up to us.”
“I as much as promised Marguerida I would stay—”
“At the cost of your own sanity? Lew, if there is any chance that the good brothers at St. Valentine’s can help you, isn’t that more important? How can you be of service to Marguerida or anyone else if you continue like this? How much of your own life, your own needs, have you set aside for others? And has it been from love, or guilt?”
“I should ask you the same thing,” Lew replied, “you whose whole life was devoted to Regis Hastur.”
It was a valid point, Danilo admitted with a pang. In a voice suddenly thickened, he said, “I never asked for anything except to serve the one I loved. I have done so with a clear mind and an easy heart. Can you say the same?”
“No, and that is the difference.” Lew went to the window. His shoulders rose and fell in a deep sigh. “I would not convert.”
“No one would ask it of you. The Holy Bearer of Burdens opens his arms to all in need.”
“It is strange,” Lew said, still gazing out over the courtyard, “but in this moment, I feel a hint of that peace you spoke of. Perhaps it is just knowing there is someone who understands. For the first time in more years than I can count, I wonder if there might be a way out of this darkness. I do not know how much time will be granted to me, but I would wish…Danilo, you always had the clearest writing of any of us. Will you write a letter of introduction for me to the—how is he called, the head of the monks?”